


The Scent of Sun-Warmed Stone

by Mithen



Series: Slumbers Deep and Dreams of Gold [5]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hair Braiding, M/M, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:26:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which baths are taken, hair is braided, and Bilbo and Thorin take turns being embarrassed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Sun-Warmed Stone

Thorin could have watched the morning light shine on Erebor for hours, but eventually it dawned on him that his companions were nearly ready to drop with exhaustion. "There are steps down," said Gandalf, and they began the long climb down the great rock, their legs wobbling with weariness.

At the base of the rock was a broad, shallow river, clear and cold, with a ford of large flat rocks. At the sight of clean water, Thorin suddenly became aware that he was filthy, covered with blood, sweat, dirt, and warg-drool. He heard a yearning sigh from Balin and caught Fili and Kili sharing hopeful glances, and decided that the search for shelter could wait.

"We shall stop here for a moment," he announced, "And bathe our wounds and cleanse ourselves."

There was a ragged whoop from the throats of twelve dwarves, and they broke into a run, stripping off their dirty clothes to toss them willy-nilly on the green grass before plunging into the cool water. Thorin followed at a more dignified pace, but he didn't hesitate before getting out of his befouled clothing and wading into the water, either.

It felt glorious sluicing against his dirty skin, and Thorin quickly undid his braids and plunged his whole head into the current, trying to get each strand of his hair and beard clean at last. The river around him turned a cloudy pink for a moment before the current washed the grime and blood away, stinging and numbing his wounds into blissful silence. He closed his eyes and let the water run through his hair, reveling in it and in the sounds of splashing and singing all around him as his men enjoyed being clean once more.

"Oh ho!" Bofur suddenly sang out. "Look what I found!" The dwarves had started to drag their clothing into the water to rinse it as well, and Bofur brandished a small gray oblong from one of his pockets. "This here, lads, is the company's only bar of soap!" He rubbed his hands together and everyone else sighed longingly at the sight of the frothy suds. "Watch and weep," he chortled, lathering his hair.

"Hey now, hand that over!" Dwalin yelled. "Don't be selfish!" The other dwarves set up a clamoring for the soap which Bofur ignored until finally Fili, driven beyond endurance, charged at him with a great splash and grabbed it from him. Things quickly devolved into chaos as everyone merrily chased the soap, ducking each other brutally and screaming deadly insults in Khuzdul. The cacophony rose in pitch, building until--

 _"Silence!"_ roared Thorin, bringing his hands down flat on the surface of the water with an audible _crack._ The dwarves stopped in mid-tackle, their voices cut off abruptly, and looked at him with chastened expressions.

"Quarreling over a bar of soap," Thorin huffed. "Is unseemly." He crossed his arms and looked regal--a bit of a trick when naked in barely-waist-deep water. "I am your Prince and the leader of this expedition, and thus I claim this bar of soap as rightfully mine." He beckoned imperiously at Gloin, current holder of the soap. "Hand it over."

Gloin gave him a look, then bowed deeply. "Of course, your most high and mighty Majesty," he said.

And then threw the soap in a high sweeping arc over Thorin's head to Kili.

Thorin yelled and jumped to try and catch it, but the arc was too high. "Sister's son, have you betrayed me?" he bellowed, turning on Kili, who started laughing so hard he fell down in the water and was unable to dodge when his uncle descended on him in wrath and dunked his head underwater. He came up sputtering but still holding the soap away, and Thorin couldn't help rumpling his hair with rough affection and relief.

"It does my heart good to see you both safe," he said in a low voice to his nephews. They looked at each other and beamed in a way that made his heart hurt, and Kili handed him the soap with a shy smile.

Thorin looked down at the soap with some surprise. Then he glanced around as a thought occurred to him. "But where is Mr. Baggins?" he said. "Does he not wish to bathe?"

"Mr. Baggins is quite well," Gandalf said from the shore, where he had settled down and begun to smoke. He nodded at a large grey boulder. "He is in a pool behind that rock. I would not recommend that," he added as Thorin started to wade toward the boulder. "It seems hobbits have a very strong taboo about public nudity."

"As do dwarves," said Thorin, frowning. "But this is not public. We are comrades, after all." He raised his voice slightly. "Are we not comrades, Mr. Baggins?"

"Of--of course we are, yes!" came a small voice from the other side of the boulder. "At least, I hope we are."

"So come join us!" called Fili, and the other dwarves roared their approval.

"No, thank you very much, but no. I don't want to be rude, but there truly is only so much dwarf I can handle, and thirteen of you with no clothes _well_ exceeds it."

Everyone exchanged amused glances. "What an odd little fellow!" said Dwalin.

A curly head appeared around the side of the boulder. "I am not odd!" Bilbo protested. "But I am a hobbit, and I have--oh my," he finished weakly, and ducked back around the corner, his face red.

Grinning, everyone splashed up the river to be closer to the hidden hobbit, although they were polite enough not to invade his sanctuary. "Do comrades not bathe together among your people, Mr. Baggins?" asked Dori.

"Bathing is _private_ time," said Bilbo. "And oh, I miss my claw-footed bath so much," he sighed. There was a sound of chattering teeth. "And nice warm water."

"The baths of Erebor were splendid." Balin's sigh echoed his. "Deep in the heart of the mountain, where the water is heated by the blood of the earth, were the springs of Erebor. After a long day of work, such pleasure to sit and soak and talk with your fellows, together in the scalding steam." He chuckled. "Mr. Baggins would probably be stewed like a rabbit in the baths of Erebor."

Thorin gave him a fond look, then took the soap and lobbed it over the boulder. He heard it land with a _splash_ and Bilbo's answering squeak of surprise. "Oh...thank you," Bilbo said after a moment.

They dragged their clothing into the water and beat it on the rocks to clean it as much as possible, then let it and themselves dry in the morning sun, lying on the green grass. Only once they had shrugged their clothes back on did Bilbo re-emerge in his ripped waistcoat, his hair tousled into damp ringlets, to sit with them on the grass.

It was a quiet morning, the first they had been able to enjoy in many long and weary days. Some of the company were smoking, some sleeping. Most were re-braiding their hair into the elaborate plaits they were accustomed to. Thorin ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh and began to separate out three strands to re-braid, squinting at it in concentration. Suddenly he regretted having undone his braids, because--

"Uncle Thorin, once I get done with Fili's braids I'll do yours. Just wait a second," Kili called over to him.

Thorin growled. "I can do this." Over and under and--wait, one of the clumps of hair was bigger than the other two, the braid was going to be uneven. He unravelled it and started over.

"Lad, let me get that for you," called Dwalin.

 _"No,"_ snapped Thorin. "I just managed to get all the blood _out_ of it, thank you." He had very bad memories indeed of Dwalin braiding his hair when he was a boy.

"It was _one time_. And there was hardly any blood at all," complained Dwalin, but Thorin ignored him.

"You've got it uneven," Bilbo said, and Thorin glared at him. "You're not--that's never going to work. You've got all sorts of loose strands and--good heavens, you're rather hopeless at this, aren't you?" Suddenly the hobbit was right beside him, shooing his hands away from the braid. "It's better to just start over from scratch," Bilbo muttered, undoing the braid and shaking out the hair before re-dividing the hair into three parts. "Can't stand to see sloppy work."

Thorin blinked down at the hobbit, who was frowning intently at his hair as he braided it. A furtive glance around the camp revealed that--of course--all the other dwarves were staring at him. Even Gandalf was looking amused, and Thorin wondered if the annoying old wizard was aware of the dwarvish taboo about non-family and braiding. Clearly Bilbo was not; he was happily interweaving Thorin's dark hair, humming slightly under his breath.

< "He saved my life. That makes him practically family", > he growled in Khuzdul to the shocked dwarves.

< "I've saved your life a few times and _I've_ never been allowed to braid your hair,"  > Bifur pointed out.

< "He doesn't know our customs. I am not going to insult a brave comrade," > Thorin grumbled.

"Is that the language of the dwarves?" Bilbo asked, his hands still busy, and Thorin suppressed a guilty start. "I've never heard you do much more than yell in it."

"We are discussing plans for battle. Nothing that concerns a burglar," Thorin said, ignoring his company's smiles.

"Well, don't stop on my account," Bilbo said. His fingers were so deft Thorin felt only a slight tugging, but the braid was tight and smooth.

< "Well, lads, now we have to keep talking or it will seem suspicious, won't it?" > Bofur pointed out, and animated conversation broke out in Khuzdul--mostly, it must be confessed, about sausage rather than strategy. Thorin supposed he could actually insist on discussing tactics, but the sun was warm and it was nice to have a moment where he _wasn't_ thinking about fighting.

< "If he's family now, maybe we should start teaching him Khuzdul," > Fili suggested.

< "Shall we call him Uncle Halfling?" > Kili asked, and the brothers exchanged delighted glances.

Thorin growled wordlessly and jerked his head to glare at them, which provoked a squeak of protest from Bilbo, still holding the end of his hair. "Confusticate you, hold still!" he complained, and Thorin glared down at him, but Bilbo seemed entirely unrattled by his expression.

Perhaps that was part of the problem, Thorin reflected as Bilbo went back to braiding. He had spent his whole life perfecting a regal glower to be directed _upward_ at men, elves, wizards--everyone in the wide world taller than a dwarf. He had never thought to develop a scowl that was directed at someone much shorter than himself. The angle was all wrong and he wasn't used to it.

That might be the problem, yes.

"There we go," Bilbo announced. He clipped the silver clasp onto the end and gave the braid a light, proprietary tug. "All done. Shall I do the other side?"

Conversations dropped off as twelve dwarves waited for Thorin Oakenshield's answer.

"I suppose," Thorin grunted.

"I gather dwarf-princes aren't required to take classes in social manners, or learn how to express gratitude very gracefully," Bilbo observed, but he stood up and moved to Thorin's other side.

< "Your braids haven't looked so good in years," > Fili said as Bilbo carefully ran his fingers through Thorin's hair, separating out the strands. < "If he's family now, can I ask him to braid mine later?" >

< "No," > snapped Thorin.

"More strategy?" Bilbo said absently.

"Fili wanted to borrow something that belongs to Uncle Thorin," Kili explained, smirking. "But I don't think he'll share."

"No," said Bilbo, chuckling as he focused on his braid, "He's not the sharing type, that's for certain."

"I will be happy to share my axe with my nephews soon," Thorin said calmly, and Kili grimaced and closed his mouth. < "This conversation is over," > he added in Khuzdul.

Bilbo's face was intent; biting his lip in concentration, he looked more like a fussy little grocer than ever. Thorin looked at him and remembered, suddenly, a very different look on his face as he stabbed an orc with his silly little blade, a very different look as he stood between Thorin and Azog.

And almost against his will, Thorin remembered the expression on Azog's scarred face as he looked at the hobbit: a measuring, calculating look. The gaze of someone committing a face to memory.

Although the sun was warm, Thorin Oakenshield shivered for a moment.

He looked up and met the eyes of Gandalf the Grey, gazing at him under the brim of his hat. And as clearly as if the words had been spoken in his ear, Thorin heard once again his own voice, speaking to the wizard as Bilbo Baggins read his contract in the cozy confines of Bag End. _"I cannot guarantee his safety,"_ he heard himself say again. _"And I will not be responsible for his fate."_

Listening to Bilbo Baggins humming quietly as he braided his hair like a brother, Thorin realized that although the first statement was as horrifyingly true as ever, at some point the second had become an utter lie.

**: : :**

The strands of grey in Thorin's hair were like silver threads weaving through his dark braid, and Bilbo enjoyed the aesthetic effect as he finished the second plait. "There we are," he said, closing the silver clasp over the end. "All done!"

Thorin heaved himself to his feet without a word of thanks, leaving Bilbo muttering about ungrateful princes. "Let's move," he rumbled. "We have wasted enough time."

There were grumbles and complaints. "My clothes aren't even dry yet," groaned Bofur.

"They will be wet again soon enough," said Thorin. "We must ford the river."

The ford was a series of wide, flat rocks that the clear river water ran over. After some more complaints, the dwarves started to stride across it without concern, but halfway across Bilbo stopped moving.

"Move along!" called Oin behind him, and a chorus of dwarves agreed, but Bilbo stood with the weight of the river pushing against his legs and found himself unable to move another step.

"Just give me a moment!" he called, not daring to turn to look back. "You've got a lower center of gravity. And boots." He shifted his feet forward and froze again as the current pushed him sideways. "Um. Bit of trouble here," he stammered.

Behind him there was a thunderous splashing, and he found himself suddenly hoisted in the air and deposited on Thorin's broad back, like a child playing piggyback.

"Oh, this is rather undignified, isn't it?" he muttered, scrabbling for a handhold. Unfortunately, what he managed to grab were the two braids. "Whoops," he said as he almost fell backwards, grabbing at the braids like lifelines.

Thorin tossed his head and made an annoyed sound. "I am not a pony, Mr. Baggins," he pointed out, and started to trudge across the ford.

"No, no! Most certainly not," Bilbo gasped, not daring to release them for fear he would grab Thorin's neck instead. As Thorin put his head down and forged onward, he eventually dared to let go of Thorin's hair and grab handfuls of the coarse fur collar instead.

When Thorin's boots touched dry land once more, Bilbo started to slide off his back, but Thorin hitched him back up without stopping.

"We're across the river," Bilbo noted.

"Thank you for the travel update," Thorin said, his voice caustic, and kept walking.

"I mean you can put me down now," said Bilbo.

"You will slow us down," Thorin said. "Naturally, being unaccustomed to heroics, you are more exhausted than the rest of us."

Bilbo frowned, fairly sure this was an insult, and opened his mouth to retort.

"--You are no burden to me, burglar," Thorin growled before he could speak. "So do not burden me with your protests. Save your strength for now."

Bilbo looked around, but none of the dwarves seemed to be laughing at him. He _was_ tired, he realized, and struggling to get off of Thorin's back while he strode on unheeding had the possibility to be even more undignified than being carried. All things considered, it seemed the path of least resistance to just let Thorin carry him for now.

So they walked through the morning, and eventually Bilbo's head dropped onto Thorin's shoulder, pillowed by the fur collar and loops of dark hair. Thorin's hair still smelled faintly of sweat and blood, and something else underneath that Bilbo couldn't quite place.

As he drowsed, carried along in a strange and swaying safety, it came to him: the scent of sun-warmed stone.


End file.
